I always felt “other” growing up and was bullied… a lot. I struggled to make friendships in the throes of frequent school changes along with a strong and quirky personality, and dorky exterior. However, while I look back on myself and see a kid who often sat alone at lunch wearing bright yellow sweats with spaghetti stains, I also see a kid who thankfully had a vivid imagination and a rich inner world, in spite of a quieter social one.
I would get lost in daydreams on the outer rims of the field alone at lunch, so much so that I would actually get into trouble on occasion for not hearing the school bell and coming back in from recess. One day in 2nd grade while I took part in my daily lunch routine of dangling upside down on the swings, hair pooling on the ground in a mess accumulating a collection of woodchips, I remember spotting a clique of girls. They were polished (that is, for second graders) with cute accessories to brighten our otherwise drab uniforms. They laughed. They played handball together. They fashioned each others’ hair. They seemed… happier, prettier, liked. And I yearned to be a part of their group.
One day I summoned the courage to approach them and weave my way into their circle and what I discovered was an anxiety-inducing political hierarchy that could rival the court of Versaille, with me firmly at the bottom of the rung, passive aggressively bullied for a few weeks until I realized that I was better off on the swings alone with my woodchips.
They weren’t happier, I found. They were mean-spirited. They were petty. They were unimaginative.
I retreated to my creativity (and the teacher’s room at lunch) and somehow convinced her to give me thirty minutes of class time every day to organize a class play (how I managed this as a 7 year-old, I have no idea…) I raided my Nana’s fabric drawer for costume pieces after school. I chose the story (Sleeping Beauty lol). I directed it, and I threw myself into creativity.
Similar experiences followed me throughout high school. In 9th grade, I announced to the class that I wanted to be a fashion designer during week one introductions. The irony was likely palpable to some of my classmates who could see that I was a bit of an outward mess. I often walked around with a sweater tied to my hips (to hide their size btw) unknowingly dragging it on the floor, collecting leaves. I wore green $1 wet n wild lipgloss. I was insecure and ashamed of my body.
But nonetheless, I was happily unaware and assumed that they called me “fashion girl” as a genuine compliment, though when I eventually caught on that they meant it in sarcasm, I was so ashamed that I quickly abandoned that dream along with my sketches and sewing projects at home.
As I have always done however, I picked myself up and launched into other creative projects, including video production and drama (the latter which led me to the eventual discovery of “hey, I can sing opera!”) And I slowly grew into my own.
These stories rushed back when I saw these gorgeous images that Photo California snapped of me yesterday. Sometimes I look at myself and think, “Who is she?” It’s taken me a long time to feel beautiful and radiant, as I was a late bloomer who struggled to find my personal style, my confidence, my people, and my sense of identity until my late twenties. But I’m so happy that I bloomed late, because my focus was spent on cultivating the parts of myself that at the end of the day, matter most; the parts that actually make a person beautiful.
So fear not if you feel awkward, out of place, or other. Being a late bloomer is a blessing.
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Elle is a multi-passionate opera singer, plus size model and blogger living in Los Angeles whose mission is to help women develop heightened peace with their bodies and food, and connecting with them over fashion, travel, relationships, mental wellness, cooking, and everything else in between.
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Though we walked very different paths when we were younger, I can totally relate to the late bloomer feeling and experience. In the mid-80s when I was a teenager, you didn’t quite fit in with the rest if your hair didn’t part down the middle and feather back like Scott Baio (he’s the example I’ve always used.) If you didn’t have leather Nike’s and Levi jeans, Jordache for the ladies, you definitely didn’t fit it… let there be no doubt. I had the frizzy, tight curly hair and often stuck out like a sore thumb. I guess it wasn’t until 1989 when I enlisted into the Army, left home, cut off all my hair, and got into a uniform that made me just like everyone else. Even then, in the military (rank notwithstanding) … there is a hierarchy depending on what your job was, and just how “tough and gritty” you were compared to the rest. Nonetheless, that’s exactly where I felt like I was part of something important, and much bigger than just me if that makes sense. After 20 years, I retired and moved on… but learned so many different lessons from traveling around the world and seeing so many things from a different perspective. Yes, I’m a late bloomed, too… and damn proud of it. Excellent post, Elle… thanks for sharing!
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Wow, thanks for sharing this Pete! Yes, I feel like a lot of people struggle with feeling “other,” probably because there are just so many types of people in this world, and frankly, we have to find our people and that’s not always easy if we aren’t perfectly centered with mainstream culture and trends. I definitely felt like I grew into my own through high school and college, but still, with sporadic periods of feeling very “outside looking in.” (PS: My mom grew up around that era too and was from a lower income fam, and she ended up becoming a full blown punker with purple hair to rebel against the Jordache jeans aesthetic, ha!)
On a side note, I bet you have a ton of awesome stories from your time in the military! Thank you for your service!!
Love, Elle